Where I End and You Begin - The Sky Is Falling In
by raistss
Summary: Set after Aperitif, follows things said in Red Dragon. Will is deeply bothered by the death of Garrett Jacob Hobbs. He helps himself when it gets out of control. Rated T for thematic elements and some graphic violence. Title taken from the song by Radiohead. (I can't seem to stop writing about this episode, gah! It's my favorite alongside Fromage and Roti.)


"Where's Graham?" Jack asked, glancing around the lecture hall.

Alana considered him for a moment. "You said he wouldn't get too close."

* * *

Ten bullets, they told him. It had taken ten bullets to kill Garrett Jacob Hobbs.

Will stared ahead of him, at the blank plastic wall. His knees were hugged to his chest, raised out of the now cold water. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there. He didn't care. The only thought running through his head was what had happened the day before.

The sun was bright, shining. A contradiction to what he saw next.

Louise Hobbs, throat slit, dumped out on the patio. Blood spurting from her throat. The fear and panic were overwhelming as Will tried desperately to keep her alive. It was too late.

The door was heavy, but he didn't notice. He'd kicked doors in before.

The rest of the memory came in flashes; Abigail Hobbs, in her father's arms, a knife to her throat. Whispers. Ten bullets. "See? See?" Blood. Trying to stop the blood flowing from her neck. Hannibal's hands prying his away.

He'd sat on his knees, his eyes distant, as the medics rushed in. He'd followed them out, silent and staring blankly ahead. Will stopped at the rental car, collapsing against it, watching the stretcher and the girl board the ambulance through his blood-splattered glasses. Attention was given to him only after she was taken away.

A blanket rested on his shoulders as somebody scrubbed the blood from his face and hands. His shirt was ruined. He was limp in their grasp, awake but unresponsive. The word "torpor" danced across his ears. The definition floated through his mind. _A state of mental and motor inactivity with partial or total insensibility; lethargy._ Will chuckled slightly, but it came out sounding like a sob.

Oh. He _was_ sobbing.

Will snapped out of his thoughts as a dog sniffed his elbow. He looked over, seeing Winston's sad expression. The door hadn't been closed, he remembered. Was the front door locked? What about the back door? He scratched the dog's head absently, pulling the drain from the tub.

Will's legs ached. How long had he been sitting there? An hour, two maybe? He stood up, grabbing a towel. Winston followed him as he checked all of the doors. He closed the curtains, too. He didn't feel like seeing the sun, shining brightly.

After he'd been pulled out of his lethargy at the Hobbs house, he'd drove straight to the hospital, despite the lecture he was supposed to be giving. He sat, watching the rise and fall of Abigail's chest. Hannibal remained sleeping until Will had fallen asleep, too. A nightmare awoke him, and the doctor was gone.

Will wasn't particularly attracted to the man in any way. He'd given a rather rude first impression, and had a dark air about him that Will was leery of.

He pulled some clothes on, a simple plaid shirt and some jeans, then wandered around the kitchen. His freezer was full of fish and bags of steamed vegetables, but he wasn't in the mood to actually work on cooking. The fridge, in comparison, was bare. Several jars of god-knows-what and a nearly expired box of strawberries. He picked out the good ones, feeling a little disgusted with himself.

_Such a waste of humanity_, he thought.

He threw the rest of them away, picking at the four he'd saved. Winston sat behind him, tail thumping softly on the floor. Will stared at the strawberries, seeing blood, blood, blood. He blinked, took out a small plate, set it on the floor with the strawberries. Winston ate them gratefully.

Will knew how to take care of himself; he'd been raised by a father with no pennies to spare, a boat and some fishing equipment. He knew he really should eat more, that his habits were increasingly unhealthy. But he didn't care enough, for the time being. He'd be content to waste away, silent and starving and alone in his house of dogs.

Maybe it would be best for everyone, he thought.

* * *

Beverly's hand gripping his shoulder startled him, and he turned his head jerkily back, trying to see her. The gun was cold in his hands, despite the shots he'd been firing.

"You are tight," she mused, feeling the tense muscles there.

"I got stabbed in the shoulder when I was a cop," he responds, remembering it briefly. His hands tremble, rattling the gun slightly. He hadn't eaten anything in three days. He hadn't slept much either, getting only two hours of it the entire period.

"I got stabbed in the third grade. With a number two pencil," Beverly says, humor in her voice. He knows she can see his hands shaking. He's relieved she doesn't mention it. "Thought I was gonna get led poisoning."

"There's no led in pencils - it's graphite," Will stumbles over his words as she moves his arms slightly, changing his grip on the weapon. "That should help with the recoil," she explains.

* * *

It's a week after he killed Hobbs that Will shuts down, stops talking to anybody unless it's necessary. He still hasn't eaten, and everyone sees the way his clothes are loose on his body, the circles under his eyes. He's half asleep everywhere he goes - often not responding to direct questions until he's shaken awake or yelled at. (More often than not, it's the latter that wakes him up.)

Hannibal convinces him to see a doctor, at the least. Will falls asleep in the waiting room for less than a minute, the nightmares lurking beneath his eyelids startling him awake again.

The doctor is calm and patient with him, nudging him awake when he dozes off.

He's underweight and badly malnourished, and the doctor asks him to go to a hospital. Will agrees without complaint, too tired and depressed to really put up a fight. He drives himself there, forcing himself to pay attention to the road.

Will stops at a phone booth first, calling Beverly and Jack. He asks Beverly to watch his dogs. He gets yelled at by Jack.

He's put in the psychiatric wing, in a room painted a soft pastel green, with paintings of dogs and forests hung up all around. It takes a few days for him to adjust, then he's carefully guided back into caring about himself. Will puts some distance between himself and the incident.

* * *

Abigail visits him. She's alive and fine, a soft blue scarf wrapped around her neck, hiding the scar. He distinctly thinks if he'd seen it, it would probably set him off.

They talk for a while, steering clear of certain subjects for the entire conversation.

He puts the ordeal behind him, and he's released.

Will goes back to work.


End file.
